Day 77: Worthing

My brother lives in Worthing and he runs an excellent Airbnb house. So popular is his home that yesterday he was fully booked and unable to offer me a bed. Happily he can for the next couple of days.

I spent most of the day catching up with Jeremy and his partner Renee, and telling them about my adventures on the edge around the coast of Britain.

Then I went out to begin to investigate Worthing, a town that in spite of having a brother recently move there from London, is a place with which I am unfamiliar. When we go there we tend to spend time with family, not to sightsee.

Jeremy tells me Worthing is 'on the up'. I will have to take his word for it but while it is not as pretty or as smart looking as Eastbourne, it does have its very good points, not least that it’s cheaper to buy a house in Worthing than it is in Brighton, just ten miles along the coast.

His suggested must see and must do list...

• The Museum and Art gallery
• The Pier (I am becoming a world expert on piers)
• Fish and chips (Nooooooooo...!.)
• The artists’ studios on the beach east of the pie

The Museum is in a very imposing Victorian building in the centre of Worthing. Not only was it free to get in but it was really good. I enjoyed it.

Amongst the usual local archaeological and historical artefacts it also has a textile and costume collection including wedding dresses...

And a toy collection that would fascinate any child or the child within any adult.

I gave fish and chips a miss and instead had a meal in a Thai Street food cafe just off the shopping street at 3 Bath Place. Very good value and good food.

I walked along the pier where there is a restaurant and a kind of semi permanent art gallery sort of sandwiched between the glass panel wind breaks, running down the centre of the pier. Interesting concept but I would think they would need to be changed regularly to keep up interest and possibly to prevent salt and damp damage. I think most of the exhibits are actually photos of the work rather than the work itself.

East of the pier towards Lancing and away from the town centre, there is a row of old fashioned brick and steel beach huts that the council has given over to a group of artists for small studio spaces. I loved the idea. Wish the council would do that in Eastbourne.

More exploring tomorrow then I am off to Brighton 

Day 75: Bournemouth and Poole

In my original plan we had been due to stay in Poole, or nearby, for two days but for some reason I could not find any Airbnb that could take two of us or none that were available for our dates. This was only the second time I had drawn a blank. The first had been at Durness on the northern coast line of Scotland but once I was there it was clear there WERE no houses, hotels of guesthouses at all.

But Bournemouth? Poole? In a conference town?

I wasn’t unduly worried as I felt sure we could just turn up and find somewhere and I spent too long this morning wasting time looking online when we could have been on the road.

Axminster was only a few miles from the place where we were and it was where my mother and her husband Fred had settled when they first married and moved away from Crawley. It was to be a retirement home in Devon, away from busy cities and where they could run a small bed and breakfast business as and when they wanted to.

In the end it was that very isolation that brought them to move back closer to their two families. Being so close and knowing how much they had liked the little town, Ros and I went into Axminster.

I scattered some of mum’s ashes round a wonderful ancient yew tree in the churchyard so that any siblings who wanted to retrace my steps and visit could find her easily.

Ros meanwhile popped into the Tourist Information Office to see if they could book ahead for us.

Unlike Visit Scotland where all their systems are joined up and one tourist office could book you accommodation in any other Scottish town for a flat fee of £4 (wonderful), English Tourist Information Offices can’t. They are not joined up and ‘are no longer a profit making organisation.’

Okay – no wonder so many are being sold off all over the country. Makes no sense at all.
 I’ll say it again – all we need to do is take the border between Scotland and England and drag it down six miles below Brighton and job done. We can all be Scots.

So Ros used her initiative and found a hotel on a phone app in Bournemouth for us for one night – at more than four times what I had paid for any of my previous stays!

Never mind – onward to the delights of Lyme Regis. Coffee was once more calling Ros.

I have visited Lyme before when I was driving a journalist friend who was doing the PR for a guest house on the main street. I think Lyme Regis is very charming. John Fowles the writer lived in Lyme Regis and his book The French Lieutenants Woman was filmed here in 1981 with Jeremy Irons and Meryl Streep in the title roles. It hasn’t changed.

The Cobb harbour with its stone pier is unchanged since it was mentioned in Jane Austen’s Persuasion.
Lyme is on the World Famous Jurassic Coast where, in the past, dinosaur remains have been discovered. One of the simple pleasures today is fossil hunting just under the cliffs, and if you can’t find your own there are several fossil shops in the town where you can buy one and pretend you found it.

It is exotically twinned with Bermuda because the town was the home of Admiral Sir George Somers who founded an English Colonial settlement on Bermuda.

The ’Regis’ bit comes from the town being a major port in the 13^th century and getting the Royal Charter from King Edward 1 in 1284 and again from Queen Elizabeth 1^st in 1591.

Coffee consumed, walk done, on to Dorchester .   

Except we couldn’t... there were holdup and traffic jams all the way bumper to bumper for no apparent reason. No traffic lights, no sudden fog or snow storms, no accidents. Just sheer weight of painfully slow moving holiday traffic.

A brief stop in Bridport but again this little market town was clogged to a standstill.

Ros’s original intention was to join me for a couple of days in Plymouth and then go home to Wittersham in Kent from Poole. However, the chaos that is Southern Rail these weeks in summer 2016 means she has no way of knowing whether her train will run at all, let alone if she will have to go via Paddington or whether she would be on a bus for the next 24 hours. It is about the cancellation of train guards (a second person on each train) without which the train workers union says train travel could be dangerous if ever there were an incident. It has been mayhem and disrupted services for months now.

Parking for a loo break I spotted a National Express Coach heading for Eastbourne via Portsmouth.

Minutes later I saw a removal van from my home town of Eastbourne.

Ros’s partner Crispin will be in Eastbourne tomorrow, sailing off the coast.

For a self confessed intuitive whose life is usually guided by phenomenal coincidence, it took a while to ‘get it’ but ‘2xEastbourne’ eventually struck me as ‘go 2 Eastbourne’ instead of spending two far too expensive days in Poole. Eastbourne was less than three hours away from Bournemouth. True it would make the day a rush but Ros had made an effort to come all this way to do a bit of my journey with me, crushed up against my dashboard with my computer behind her seat and only room for minimal luggage. It was the least I could do to save her the travelling time and my host in Worthing had only room for one person, not two.

But wouldn’t that mean my trip would be over before my 80 days? I would be driving straight through Worthing to get to Eastbourne would I not? We will see.

Dorchester was out.

Bridport was out  - which was a shame. I wanted to share the film location for the popular TV series Broadchurch with her. And call in on Rick Stein’s restaurant to ask him why he had decided to boycott Eastbourne. Was it a Brexit excuse? He was spared my quextions.

Bournemouth is a similar town to Eastbourne except that it has sandy beaches to our shingle. 

We found the hotel and went exploring the town. It claims to be a unique shopping experience. Slight exaggeration – nothing unique about it as far as we could tell. Much the same as every other large seaside town everywhere else in Britain. 

It had a pier. So do we. It had parks. So do we.  It had seven miles of sandy beaches. Otherwise very similar. 

It also had a ghastly monstrosity of an International Conference Centre that looked underused. 

My daughter Morgan had been there just  a week ago at a conference and Political parties use it, but today it was firmly closed. Very ugly building that seemed to take not a scrap of the landscape into consideration in the design. Who in the planning offices allows these things to be built? Not that I am judgmental or an architect of course.

Bournemouth has lovely villages round and about but again I will have to revisit at another time.

This is not what I had planned but needs must on this occasion

Tomorrow it is back to Eastbourne .....or not.

Day 73: Plymouth and Beyond

Plymouth has a very rich history.  It is on the south coast of Devon between the mouths of two rivers – the Plym and the Tamar. To get from Cornwall to Plymouth yesterday I had to cross the impressive  Tamar Bridge to reach the station in time to meet Ros.

In 1620 the Pilgrim Fathers left Plymouth for America, and the photo of Ros between the pillars on the dock in yesterday’s blog are the steps they descended as they boarded the Mayflower. It has always been an important port both for passengers and trade, particularly the export of copper, lime, arsenic, tin and china clay from Cornwall.

It was also a hugely important naval base and ship building town going back to Francis Drake, who was town mayor in 1581 and 1593. According to hearsay and popular legend, he insisted on completing his game of bowls on The Hoe before going off to rout the Spanish Armada. Ros my dear sailing friend says he could have afforded to do that as he had to wait for the tide to turn.

Because of its naval importance, in World War 2 Plymouth  was particularly targeted by the German Luftwaffe in a series of series of 59 bombing raids. Must have been terrifying for the residents and surprising that any building are left at all let alone buildings of note. Much of the original town was destroyed.

The day started well. We were lodged in a guesthouse near the Barbican and had an excellent breakfast. The landlady was fascinated by my trip and made several suggestions for a must see must do:

• The Barbican and the Hoe
• Via Ferry from the Barbican to Royal William Yard – old naval administrative centre of Plymouth
• Second ferry to Mount Egdcumbe to visit the stately home there with lovely grounds, museum and orangery
• Tavistock in the afternoon

The sun was shining and we went to the Barbican through the twisty little streets to catch the first ferry. We had missed it.

Plymouth has the National marine Aquarium at the Barbican. It is probably wonderful but quite expensive and we decided not to splash out on visiting it. Instead  we sauntered into the shop to pass the time and look at the fishy motif souvenirs.

A few steps away from a ‘treasure chest full of gemstones for just £2 a pouch “I saw what I took to be a ‘taster’ fish tank intimating the delights inside the aquarium.  Naturally I went to take a look.

 

How lovely. Then I saw another and went to look at that.

Meanwhile Ros had no idea where I had disappeared and came searching for me.

By now I was on tank three when I realised to my horror I was in the actual aquarium and there were no taster tanks! I had gone in through the exit. No-one had stopped me, staff had not challenged me and now both Ros and I were being dragged along in the hectic wake of about 120 teenagers and their teachers on a workshop day out in the place. Definitely echoes here of my being swept up by the French coach party being mistaken for a French woman and being bought a ticket to the Clan MacDonald exhibition on Skye!

Ros was very sang froid about it as a year previously she and her friend had bought year passes to the same aquarium. Thank goodness! If challenged we had passes for two people – not here admittedly, but at least she had them. 

The National Marine aquarium was built on reclaimed land in the city and apart from being a tourist attraction, it also promotes research and education.  Hence the teenagers trialling an educational day long workshop. We had now missed the second ferry and a passerby suggested it was only a walk of twenty minutes to the second ferry so why wait? We could be at the second one even before the first one arrived. Good thinking - so we set off along the seafront.  Ros is one for frequent coffee stops so after about nine minutes walking, past the lighthouse on the Hoe

Coffee was calling her and we stopped in a beachfront cafe and had a coffee before continuing.

The night before we had noticed a building close to the sea that looked as though it was being demolished. We had to stop again to watch in fascination as a crane delicately as a fish, nibbled at the top and side of the skyscraper hotel  while a man on a sort of fireman’s ladder,  hosed down the crane to prevent the heat of the action starting a fire.

So our "just twenty minutes" stretched to almost an hour and a half by the time we arrived at The Royal William yards impressive Georgian buildings still home to modern naval barracks and administration.  It is also becoming a visitor spot with cafes and galleries but we had no time to browse.

The Cremell Ferry to take us to Mount Egdcumbe was ready and waiting to depart all the way back into Cornwall. It took less that ten minutes.

Mount Edgcumbe is an ideal wedding venue folks. It’s beautiful. It has beach, rolling lawns, castle ruins and a stately pile all in one place. Great for photo opportunities.

It was built in the 1500’s and was home to the Earls of Mount Edgcumbe. Although it was tudor, it was so badly damaged in the War, that when it was rebuilt the inside is totally post war in design.

However, if we were to go to Tavistock before dark, we did not have time to saunter.

Luckily, a chap in a golfing buggy offered us a lift through the grounds to the top of the hill for a charity donation of 50p. We took it. 

We did have time for lunch – just – in the stables cafe, while trying to see how far Tavistock might be from our current location. It was very windy – not really conducive to eating outdoors or map reading!

The rest of the day was like a speeded up movie. Back on the ferry, onto a bus back towards the Barbican. Then to where we had left Gloria, and scooting through the late afternoon traffic down the A368 and towards Tavistock.

Why?

The oldest medieval pannier market in the UK. What? All the way to Tavistock to see an indoor market? Apparently.

What else was in Tavistock? We had no idea but were about to find out.

Tavistock is a market town in West Devon. It was about 16 miles from Plymouth. It is on the river Tavy (at which we had thought to stop, find a pub and sip something delicious and cold - but we never found the river) and on the edge of Dartmoor.

In 1105 King Henry I awarded the town a market charter. The market known as the Pannier Market is still there.

We liked the market with its many stalls of ordinary everyday essentials and its of variety of  crafts and crafting materials.

Obviously a crafty place – even this statue in the town square had been knit -bombed!!

Failing to find the river, we made our way back to Plymouth via a pub in Whitchurch where we did manage to find something cool and delicious, and learned that the river had been behind a hotel in Tavistock all the time.

Back in Plymouth and once more on the search for food near the Barbican We fetched up at the same place as last night for good food and convenience – The Glassblowers. I am aware that this blog makes it look as though Plymouth is an olde worlde town with not a modern thoroughfare in sight. There is in fact a large and bustling modern city centre – we just never went there.

Tomorrow we move on to another Mouth – Dartmouth. 

Day 72: To Plymouth

My friend Ros, who was with me for a couple of days at the start of my trip, planned to join me in Plymouth for a couple of days too. No idea how we were going to fit any of her luggage into Gloria. Gloria was pretty full before I added souvenirs for the family, lots of craft beer, Morgans birthday present and a hundred brochures. Fortunately Ros is a sailor and used to cramped spaces. It would be lovely to see her again, and hopefully her journey from Wittersham in Kent to Plymouth wouldn’t be too disrupted by the madness that is currently Southern Railways. 

However her train was due to arrive at Plymouth railway station at 3.05pm so I had to get a shift on.

My mother loved Fowey and Polperro and Looe, so I planned to stop off at these villages on route traffic and time permitting.

Yesterday Mousehole and Marazion, also favourites were impossible as there was nowhere to park.  Today I am feeling grumpy as it appears more of the same. We are getting too close to the schools breaking up for the summer so I suspect everyone else is hitting the roads to get their holidays before the summertime price hike.

Fowey was very civilised. The town firmly suggested that visitors use the large car parks at the top of the town, and walk or use the regular small 16 seater courtesy buses to get to the centre. The town was one way, so you never had the altercations with cars going both ways on streets not designed for cars in the first place. 

I had forgotten what a charming place Fowey is.

Who could resist their aquarium offering?

Fowey was the home of the writer Daphne Du Maurier who wrote the famous Cornish inspired stories,  Jamaica Inn , Rebecca and My Cousin Rachel amongst others.

I wandered through the town for an hour or so, had a very late breakfast in a cafe and returned to the car to continue on my way.

When I began this trip in May the whole country was citrus yellow from rape seed. Today there was a noticeable change in the colours around me from the lemon yellow to the more mellow honey colour of the ripening wheat and barley

Spending time in Fowey meant I had run out of time to visit either Polperro or Looe but I needed to reach Plymouth in time to collect Ros.

I got there in plenty of time and found the railway station, but the car park wanted £6 for my 30 minute wait. I drove around until I found a car park nearby for a £1. At this end of my trip every £1 counts. Ros knows this coast well as a frequent yachtman, so also knew Plymouth.

We had a cuppa in the Sailing Club and then spent the afternoon in the Barbican and on the waterfront.

After an excellent supper in the Glassblowers, a very good restaurant in the Barbican, Ros took me to The Hoe where I was appalled to see the Royal naval War Memorial a massive edifice. 23,000 naval personal were commemorated. What a disgraceful waste of life! And that did not include 40,000 merchant navy men.

She showed me where the bomb damage in the last war had decimated the town and how they had rebuilt with wide avenues. The guildhall building was still intact. And although it was getting dark we did see two rather strange sheep on the forecourt.

Enough tonight. We are here are here all day tomorrow so let’s see what else Plymouth has to offer.

Did anyone mention gin?